


Meld

by tastewithouttalent



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Commitment, Established Relationship, Inline with canon, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-13 13:36:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16019015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "It’s not as if Gimli really minds Legolas's company, and if that’s not something Gimli would admit in a hundred years to any other of their companions, he and Legolas have come to an understanding between themselves that doesn’t require words in either of their native tongues to be communicated." Legolas finds Gimli taking a moment to himself in Lothlorien and offers a suggestion of his own.





	Meld

It is strange among the trees.

Gimli is a creature of rock, of stone and ore and iron, with the solid, firm weight of the earth itself beneath and over and around him. He hardly dislikes the sunlight, whatever ill-intentioned Elves might make of it, but it’s true that he’s out of his element within a forest, with the strange, arching airiness of the branches forming a tapestry above his head to make a lie of the light that filters through, to hide shadowy uncertainty amidst the rustle of leaves. Mines Gimli knows, with their flickering torchlight and echoes that speak as clearly to his hearing of approaching danger or friend alike as a spoken command would; trees are something else again in their lofty, unscaled heights above him. Gimli is uncomfortable in forests, with the kind of deep-down, instinctive uncertainty that a born-and-bred farmer might feel at laying eyes to the ocean for the first time; and yet it is out into the forest that his feet bear him, that first night in Lorien.

Gimli can’t explain it. He has never understand the draw of the unfamiliar, before now: what is unknown is there to be mapped, to be explored, to be sorted into ore and scrap and formed into the shape and substance that he and his folk enforce upon it. He doesn’t see the appeal of uncertainty, of feeling like his feet are braced on shifting sand that changes its form with every stride; and yet the forest calls him, luring him out into the nighttime shadows of its branches as if calling his name with every rustle of its leaves. Gimli doesn’t understand the sounds he hears, they speak in a language as foreign to him as the murmur of Elvish that sounds like nothing so much as a slurring whisper when he listens to it; but he answers all the same, carried forward as if in a dream to pace the delicate paths and arching bridges that span the trees around him with the heavy Dwarvish footfalls they have surely never known before.

It’s almost peaceful, in the trees. The Elves have clustered around their fellowship to offer food, water, rest and conversation as their party has need and inclination, and the farther out Gimli goes the farther he paces without catching a glimpse of golden hair or gossamer robes. If he stops he thinks he might be able to fall asleep, just for the weight of exhaustion that clings so close to his shoulders and aches through the whole of his body; but he is gripped by something like a delirium, a haze of vague need that urges him on even as his mind wanders and his wounds sting, until it’s only when he comes to the top of a balcony and finds himself without another path to continue along that his feet finally stop him. He could turn around, could return back the way he came and look for another path; but in the first moment of shock Gimli’s feet stall, and he pauses at the top of the stairs behind him to gaze out through the arching branches of the trees that wind themselves into a tapestry at his present lofty height.

“Have you finally found a view to your liking?”

Gimli turns at once, jerking around with the uncomfortable realization of an unexpected audience behind him; but the face that emerges from the stairway he has just climbed is a more familiar one than one of the Lothlorien residents, even if arrayed into the haughty elegance of an Elf all the same. Gimli’s shoulders ease at once and he blows out a huff of breath enough to convey his sentiments while Legolas is still stepping up along the last of the stairs to join him on the balcony.

“It’s not a view I was looking for,” Gimli says, and he turns to stomp forward to the railing that looks as much grown as shaped along the edge of the platform. “All I was looking for was some peace and quiet to myself.”

“I am sorry to have disturbed you then.” Legolas’s tone seems perfectly sincere, as careful and politic as any Elf, but he undermines his claim entirely by coming forward to stand beside Gimli at the edge of the balcony rather than retreating. Gimli looks at him sideways and blows a gust of air through the weight of his mustache, but when he moves it’s to lean in and brace himself against the edge of the railing before him rather than giving any more protest to Legolas’s presence than what he has already offered. It’s not as if he really minds the other’s company, after all, and if that’s not something Gimli would admit in a hundred years to any other of their companions, he and Legolas have come to an understanding between themselves that doesn’t require words in either of their native tongues to be communicated.

They are silent for what seems a long span of time, what could be as much as an hour or as brief as a handful of minutes. Gimli is turning over thoughts in his head, feeling out the shape of new ideas carried with clear blue eyes and the rustle of the wind through faraway leaves, and whatever Legolas is thinking he keeps behind the mask of composure that he is wont to draw over the lines of his face. Gimli looks at him sideways a handful of times, eying the other while Legolas’s attention appears to be fixed elsewhere. Here, with the dappled lighting of twilight falling blue and silver over them and Legolas’s travel-worn clothes exchanged for some flowing Elvish garment, Gimli can see something of the arch of the tree branches in the curve of the other’s cheekbones, can see a suggestion as of summer sunlight in the ripple of his hair. There is a kind of grace to his features, something utterly unlike the solid certainty of Dwarven good looks or the regal weight of a well-kept beard, but striking nonetheless, enough to hold the eye with the same kind of lingering intrigue the branches over them might offer. Gimli might even go so far as to admit Legolas beautiful, in the moment, in the quiet of his own starstruck thoughts; and then Legolas takes a breath to speak, and Gimli turns away in a rush to look back out at the trees before and below them.

“I have a request to make of you.” Legolas’s voice is level, as steady as the gaze he has fixed out on the trees before them; Gimli doesn’t turn his head. He’s not going to run the risk of meeting those clear eyes without good reason. “If you would allow me to speak it.”

Gimli snorts rough force at the back of his throat. “You’ve never asked for my permission to speak before, laddy,” he says. “Say your words and be done with them.”

“Very well.” Legolas pauses, as if bracing himself for a fall; he stays silent so long Gimli is just turning his head to frown attention at the other in case he has decided to stay silent after all when Legolas speaks again. “I wish to bind myself to you.”

Gimli’s motion becomes a jerk, his breath becomes a cough. He twists to stare up at Legolas next to him, caught so much by surprise all he can think of is that this is a joke; but Legolas is looking out at the trees still, his expression a picture of Elvish calm, and there’s no indication of mockery anywhere in his features.

Gimli opts for the direct route. “You’re joking.”

Legolas shakes his head without looking away from the branches. “I assure you I most certainly am not.”

“You can’t mean that,” Gimli tells him more than asks. “What could possibly put such an idea into your head?”

Legolas raises a shoulder, angling the line of his arm up into a shrug that pulls at the silvery blue of his jacket as if it were made to be urged into such an alignment. “I’ve been thinking of it for some days,” he says, as if this is a perfectly reasonable thing to be contemplating. “After crossing the borders here and seeing the way you gazed upon the Lady, it seemed most prudent to bring it up now.”

“The way I--” Gimli repeats; and then his face heats, color rising to his cheeks like warmth being brought forth from a forge-fire. He sets his jaw tight, frowns hard at Legolas next to him at the railing, and reaches to brace his hand against the delicate support of it. “You are teasing me.”

The very corner of Legolas’s mouth twitches. When he dips his head to the side it’s a careful motion, barely enough to ruffle the long weight of his hair. “I am indeed.”

Gimli huffs a breath through his mustaches. “I should have known,” he says, and turns to face the railing instead of Legolas beside him. “Dainty Elvish princeling that you are, you’re bound to be taken by fits of jealousy.”

“It is not jealousy,” Legolas says, so evenly Gimli thinks someone else might believe him. “I simply thought it would be best to make my intentions clear.”

“And to stake your claim at once?” Gimli suggests. “I doubt the Lady will have any issue with you taking me away again with the morning light, when she has her own Lord at her side.”

“You never know,” Legolas says lightly. “I have heard rumor that the Lady Galadriel is very fond of beards, and I have seen none as fine as yours.” He cuts his gaze sideways to look at Gimli next to him. “I am teasing you now, as well.”

Gimli rolls his eyes. “Yes, I can tell that much,” he growls. “Thanks for the warning.” Legolas smiles and turns back to the trees before them; Gimli goes on frowning at the other for a moment before he turns to look out himself. There is quiet for a breath; then Gimli clears his throat with rough force. “Was the offer a joke as well?”

Gimli can see Legolas shake his head without turning to watch the motion. He does anyway. “It was not.”

“You cannot mean it,” Gimli tells him, only somewhat more gently than he spoke before. “An Elf and a Dwarf? It’s never been heard of before.”

“That does not mean it never should be,” Legolas says. “I am very serious about this.”

Gimli blows out a gusty breath. “Why?” he asks. “I don’t believe that it was some snit over the Lady that pushed you to this. We’ve done just fine with our understanding up till now. Why take such an action?”

Legolas is silent for a moment. If Gimli weren’t looking at him he might think his words had gone unheard; but he is looking, and he’s watching Legolas’s face as it flickers with light as uncertain as that filtering through the trees. Legolas opens his mouth to speak, closes it on a frown instead, tenses a crease into his forehead; finally he draws in a breath through his nose and lets it out in a sigh as of resignation.

“Gandalf,” he says, finally. He’s speaking softly, almost reverently, but Gimli still feels the name like a blow against his chest, like the full force of a hammer slamming in to crack and bruise the span of ribs around his heart. He huffs a breath but Legolas is still speaking, murmuring words in that same careful tone like he’s sharing something delicate and fragile with Gimli beside him. “I thought he would remain with us, to lead the way and guide our steps on this long journey. To have him fall--to see him gone, just like that…” He presses his lips together and shakes his head. “It’s hard to bear the thought of the darkness we must continue on through alone, now. With one of our party so easily lost, I fear to think what may await us in the future.” Legolas takes a breath, this one so deliberate Gimli can see it shift in his shoulders. “We could lose one of the hobbits, or Boromir, or Aragorn. I could lose you.” He tips his head to look towards Gimli. “You could--”

“That’s enough,” Gimli says, more harshly than he meant but with volume enough to stifle Legolas’s words, which is all he truly wished to do. “I see your point well enough.”

Legolas closes his mouth on the end of his sentence, but he doesn’t look away, and there’s warmth enough in his gaze on Gimli next to him to prickle warmth all down the other’s spine. “It is a dangerous path we are all treading,” he says instead. “These are no times to stand on ceremony. I, at least, wish to take what comfort I can find where I can find it.”

Gimli grumbles over a sigh in the back of his throat. “Never thought I’d hear the day an Elf would give up on ceremony.”

Legolas’s mouth twitches again. “I have fallen into the habits of my bad company, I’m afraid.”

Gimli snorts and turns his head to look back towards the trees before them. Legolas is still looking at him -- Gimli imagines he can feel the focus of the other’s eyes against the weight of his hair -- but he doesn’t look. There’s too much to see in those eyes, too much dizzying uncertainty in the endless depths gazing back at him, and Gimli needs all the stability he can find for himself at this moment. He’s too high above the ground, too far distant from the earth that might steady him, that might ease the vertiginous spin of his thoughts; but he can hardly descend to the ground now, and he isn’t at all sure the slide of fallen leaves strewn across the earth beneath him is going to offer him any greater support. The best he can do is to lay hands to the edge of the railing before him, to grip and brace against the curve of it at both palms, and to breathe deep, deliberate inhales as if he’s trying to work past the headrush of too much ale and a too-brief sleep. It does no help, for the first moment; but then Gimli tightens his grip, twisting to lay firm claim to the texture of the railing, and his thoughts start to clear, forming into calm as if underground pools clearing of the brief bright of ripples playing over them. He remains himself, even amidst an enchanted forest and high at the precipice of some Elvish architecture; within his own self there is a core steadier than any hammer, stronger than any iron. Gimli breathes deep, filling his lungs with night-cool air and letting it glow warm in the furnace of his chest; and then he lets his breath go, and lifts his head to turn in towards Legolas at his side as quickly as he eases his hold on the railing.

“Very well,” he says. Legolas turns to face him, moving quickly enough that it carries a flicker of surprise in the gesture, but Gimli’s feet are steady and his words are sure, even as Legolas straightens with his eyes going wide as he gazes at Gimli before him. “Never let it be said that an Elf is more steady than a Dwarf.” He extends a hand before him, offering it palm-up towards Legolas.

Legolas reaches out to stretch his hand towards Gimli’s and lay his fingers down atop the other’s. His grip tightens around Gimli’s wrist; Gimli’s own hold fits close against the soft cuff of the other’s elegant shirt. “I certainly never shall.”

Gimli clears his throat, aware even as he offers the sound that it sounds rough and unpolished. “What is there to it, then?” he asks. “Do we need to call up witnesses, or is there a ceremony, or…”

Legolas laughs outright at that, all the elegant lines of his features giving way to a burst of delight so bright Gimli’s breath catches as if he’s caught a glimpse of mithril in some distant, unexplored vein of stone. “No,” he says. “It’s just a few words.” He offers his free hand up towards Gimli. Gimli frowns for a moment before he lets his hold on the railing next to him go and reaches to lay his hand in Legolas’s in mirror image of their other hold. “Each of us serves as witness for the other.”

Gimli huffs. “Remarkably reasonable, for Elves.”

Legolas shrugs without letting go of Gimli’s hands. “It is an arrangement between us,” he says. “There is no need for any other to enter into a bond of honor.” He pauses, as if taking a breath although Gimli doesn’t hear the catch of his inhale; then his fingers tighten, his grip presses with gentle care around Gimli’s hands, and Gimli can feel his whole body go tense in anticipation even before Legolas opens his mouth to speak.

“I, Legolas, do bind myself to you, Gimli, here in sight of the sky above us, to walk together upon a single path and guide our lives into one seeming, to remain bound until death or mutual accord shall separate us.”

It’s a simple statement. The words are swift, as easily ended as begun; but Gimli feels each of them like a blow against his chest, as if the rhythm of Legolas’s voice intends to reforge the pattern of his heart into something new. His fingers tighten hard against Legolas’s hands, pressing rough calluses close against smooth skin, and when he takes a breath he feels it glow in him like the gust of a bellows over glowing coals.

“I, Gimli son of Glóin, bind myself to you Legolas, here atop the earth beneath us, to tread upon one path and live a single life until death should separate us.” He pauses, just for a moment, while Legolas’s hands are still held tight in his. “Or until we both return to our senses and separate ourselves.”

Legolas huffs himself into a smile. His fingers clasp tighter around Gimli’s hands in his. “I think you shall be waiting long centuries for such from me.”

“Not as long as I’ll keep you waiting,” Gimli tells him. “No one outlasts a Dwarf.”

“Indeed,” Legolas says. “I suppose we will be held to each other by our own stubbornness if nothing else.”

“That’s right,” Gimli growls in mock aggression, and Legolas laughs again. There’s something warm and almost innocent in the sound at his lips, as if he’s set aside the uncounted years of his existence with the simplicity of the words between them to become as young in truth as his appearance would have him. Gimli can’t help but chuckle too, a low rumble of pleasure spilling up from the span of his chest, and when he shifts his hold on Legolas’s hands it’s only to lower them between them instead of held out into a wall.

“That was quick,” he rumbles far in the back of his throat. “With all the time we saved there, think we might have a chance for a more Dwarven celebration than all this cool Elvish formality?”

Legolas catches his breath back to restrain his laughter, though his smile lingers soft and unabashed at his lips as he looks down at Gimli. “A good question,” he says, and shifts his hands to interlaces his fingers with Gimli’s. “It seems only fair, under the circumstances.”

Gimli purrs over satisfaction in the back of his throat. “I knew there was a reason I kept you around,” he says, and pulls at Legolas’s hands to urge him down so he can temper the promise of their words with the warmth of a kiss.


End file.
